


Half-light, Jack knife

by withthekeyisking



Series: Dick Rare Pair Challenge [10]
Category: Constantine (Comic), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Amazing John Constantine, Dick Grayson Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heavy Drinking, Hurt Dick Grayson, Nightwing Volume 2 Issue 093, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Self-Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26558296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: In the aftermath of Blockbuster and Catalina, Dick gets support from an unexpected source.
Relationships: John Constantine & Dick Grayson
Series: Dick Rare Pair Challenge [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836145
Comments: 56
Kudos: 455
Collections: Dick Grayson Rare Pair Challenge





	Half-light, Jack knife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RUNNFROMTHEAK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RUNNFROMTHEAK/gifts).



> Dedicated to AK, who said she would kill for me to do a Dick/Constantine fic XD  
>   
>  _The only thing that keeps me from driving this car  
>  Half-light, jack knife into the canyon at night  
> Signs and wonders: Perseus aligned with the skull  
> Slain Medusa, Pegasus alight from us all_  
> -The Only Thing by Sufjan Stevens

Dick is usually much better about keeping track of his alcohol consumption.

He's not a big drinker in general, which has the unfortunate side effect of making him something of a lightweight. So that combined with Bat paranoia means always being aware of just how much alcohol he puts into his body.

Tonight, he has no fucking clue how much he's drunk.

It's enough that everything is ever so slightly fuzzy, the world around him blurred out of focus, making him feel out of step with everyone else. He draws patterns on the bar top, swirling figures that vanish the instant he looks away from them but linger under his eyelids when they droop.

It's enough that the bartender hesitates before refilling his glass again when Dick raps his knuckles to request another. He barely even knows what he's drinking anymore, the burn having faded long ago. It tastes like ash and blood and rain, smells like Catalina's perfume—

He flags down the bartender for another. If he can smell her, if he's conscious enough to taste the rain on his tongue, then he's not nearly drunk enough.

"You might want to slow down," the bartender cautions.

She's definitely right, he should cut himself off. Should let her call him a cab and go sleep this off, and maybe things will look better in the morning.

But nothing is okay. Nothing is alright. Everything has crumbled around him, his life fractured into a million pieces, and the idea of going back to his apartment all alone—

Wait. He doesn't even have his apartment anymore. It's gone. They burned it down. All of his belongings, everything he owned, every shred of his life went up in flames. He doesn't have a home anymore. Doesn't have any of the things he'd kept from the circus. Doesn't have any of the photos of himself and his parents, or the original Flying Graysons poster, or the bag Donna left at his place that she promised to come pick up and then _died,_ or the—

He has nothing. He has no one. How can he face anyone after what he did, after what he let her do? After she—after _she—_

He raps his knuckles on the bar again. The bartender's face sets, shoulders squaring, preparing to tell him no. He doesn't know what he'll do if she does, if she makes him leave. What does he do then?

Catalina gave him the address of a motel and told him to go there. She'll be waiting. The idea of seeing her again makes him nauseous but there is _nowhere else._

"I think you're done," the bartender says. "Do you have someone I can call for you?"

The first name on his tongue is Barbara, but she left him. Next is Donna, but she's dead. Third comes Bruce, but Bruce has his hands full in Gotham and how could Dick possibly face him? How can he look his father in the eye and admit what he's done? All of them, everyone, how could he possibly—

"Grayson?"

Dick lifts his head, gaze dragging over to the figure who approached him without him noticing. Tan trench coat, sandy blonde hair, smoldering cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

"Constantine," Dick says, or at least he thinks he does. He might miss a syllable somewhere along the way, but he feels he gets his point across.

"You don't look too good, luv," Constantine observes. He takes a drag from his cigarette and glances over at the bartender. "How much has he had to drink?"

The bartender looks at Dick for permission, probably making sure that this is someone Dick actually knows and not just a random person trying to take advantage of the pretty drunk boy hanging off the bar. He waves a hand absently at her in approval, not caring nearly enough to tell Constantine to go away.

"Almost a full bottle of vodka," she tells Constantine on a sigh, and Dick hums; so he's been drinking vodka. Good to know.

"He owe you anything?" Constantine asks next, and the bartender shakes her head.

"Gave me his card when he sat down to open a tab."

Constantine cocks an eyebrow at Dick. "Well you're really in it, aren't'cha, Grayson?"

Dick puts up his middle finger at the man, because it feels like the appropriate response, but Constantine only chuckles and sits down on the barstool next to Dick, looking over at him.

"So what's got you so down?"

Dick blinks slowly at him. Where the fuck does he start? A few hours ago, when he stood aside and let a man be killed and then got r—had sex on a roof? A few days ago, when his apartment building blew up and killed a bunch of innocent people in his place? Or before that, when Haly's Circus burned for the simple crime of having a distant connection to him?

Or how about Donna's death? Joey's? Jason's? Mirage taking advantage? Bruce firing him? Two-Face almost beating him to death? Watching his parents fall, seeing their broken bodies on the ground? So many events, so many things that have chipped away at his very being, so many things that have knocked him down again and again and for some reason he kept getting back up, kept fighting, but maybe he's had enough, maybe now he's just _done—_

"Had a rough couple days," Dick murmurs, gaze sliding back down to the wood of the bar. He rubs his thumb through a small ring of condensation, scattering the water.

"I heard about your circus," Constantine says, voice gentle in a way few people know the man capable of. "Sorry for your loss."

A smile tugs at Dick's lips, stopping far short of reaching his eyes. "Thanks. Are you sorry enough to convince her to fill up my glass again?"

He hears Constantine take a drag from his cigarette and then let it out on a sigh. "Now I'm not the picture of healthy coping mechanisms," he drawls, "but I feel compelled to tell ya that y'should quit while you're ahead."

Dick lets out a laugh, tinged with bitterness. "Ahead. Yeah, sure, that's how I feel. _Ahead._ No I'm feeling rather too much, thanks, so I'd really just like—"

Constantine reaches out, putting a hand on his shoulder. Dick flinches, throat clogging. Constantine immediately removes his hand.

When Dick manages to gather himself enough to look up, he finds Constantine watching him, blue eyes steady and...understanding. Christ, that's way too much understanding for Dick's comfort.

"A rough couple days, huh," Constantine says, far too knowing. Dick is finding that his heart is way too fast in his chest.

When Constantine offers him the cigarette, he takes it.

Dick's never been a smoker, but you don't spend years on a team with a bunch of teenagers without at least _trying_ it, and Roy and Wally had egged him on until he could manage it without coughing. It's been years since then, years since he was fifteen and it was just the five of them, so much weight on their shoulders but also so much _joy_ shared between them.

He misses his friends. He misses them so much that sometimes he can barely _breathe,_ that sometimes he forgets Donna is dead and he has a single moment to be happy before it all comes crashing back down—

He exhales slowly, watching the smoke dissipate into the stale bar air.

"If you want to tell me," Constantine says, "you can. I might get it more than you think."

Dick looks at him. He knows what Constantine is saying, even if he wishes he didn't. He knows what Constantine _thinks_ happened to him, but that's not what happened. The flinch was—a fluke. He could've stopped Catalina and he didn't. He's stronger than her, a better fighter; if he really didn't want it, if he _really_ wanted her to stop, he could've made her. But he didn't, so. So.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dick says, working hard to annunciate.

Constantine chuckles. "Sure, luv."

Dick narrows his eyes. "Why are you here?"

"I was just gettin' a drink," Constantine says, raising his eyebrows. "Pure coincidence that I ended up in the same bar you are. Or maybe not, who knows? The universe sure does like meddlin', 'specially in my life."

Dick snorts. "I doubt the universe gives a shit about me."

Constantine looks at him. "Dickie," he says, "you have no bloody clue."

Dick doesn't want to know what he means by that. He wants Constantine to go away, to leave him here to wallow and hate himself in peace. He doesn't want anyone witnessing him like this, not right now. He's too fragile to handle it. Constantine is going to press just right and Dick is going to _shatter_ and he doubts he has the ability to gather up the pieces, not again. He's had to do it too many times already. He can't do it again. He keeps falling, keeps failing, keeps tripping into the same traps and the same patterns, his life one fuck up after another.

"Why don't I take you out of here?" Constantine says.

"I'm not sleeping with you."

Constantine laughs. "Hell, luv. That wasn't a come-on. You're in no state. I'm sayin' I think it's time for you to head home, and you might be a Bat but I don't think you can get there alone right now."

Dick's lips twist and he looks away. "I don't have a home anymore. They set it on fire."

"The circus—"

"Not just that," Dick says thickly. "My—my apartment, too. They...he went after everything. He destroyed _everything."_

"Is this 'he' the one who raped you?"

Dick flinches, eyes cutting over to look at Constantine. The man meets his gaze steadily, taking another drag from his cigarette. It's almost burned out now. He doesn't seem to notice that he's almost to the filter.

"Don't talk about shit you don't understand," Dick says hoarsely.

"I understand that look in your eye," Constantine says easily. "I understand that flinch. Saw it in the bloody mirror for quite a long time."

Dick swallows and drops his eyes. "It wasn't...I—I could've stopped her. I could've...but I—didn't. So. So it wasn't—it wasn't."

Constantine hums. He finishes the cigarette and glances at it in brief irritation before flicking it away. It vanishes before hitting the ground. "Did you want her to do what she did?"

He didn't want Catalina to follow him up to the roof. He didn't want her to get on top of him or open his suit or— He told her no. He said stop. He didn't want it. But she didn't listen. She didn't listen, she told him to be quiet, and she...

Dick closes his eyes. The whole reason he came to the bar was to forget, at least for a little while. To drown his fucking sorrows. What right does John Constantine have to appear and force him to think about it? Just because they slept together once before doesn't mean Constantine gets to dig around in Dick's life and pull up all the pain, all the shit Dick would rather never let see the light of day—

He just. He just wants it all to stop. He just wants everything to _stop._

"Does it matter?" Dick says with a humorless laugh. "Does it—I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't good enough and so she—she, uh—and I came. So it's. It's fine. It's all fine."

"You think that's how it works?" Constantine asks. "Because you weren't _strong enough_ you deserved her raping you?"

Stop _saying_ that," Dick says helplessly, putting his head in his hands as if he could make Constantine vanish simply by not being able to see him. "Stop using that word, it wasn't—I haven't been—"

He said no, though. He said no. He told her to stop. He couldn't move, could barely breathe, and he told her to stop and she didn't listen. Like when he told Mirage no and instead she impersonated Kory to sleep with him. Neither of them gave a damn that he didn't want them. Both of them acted like they were right to do what they did.

Once is an incident, twice is a pattern. Maybe it's something wrong with him, after all. Why else would it keep happening. Maybe he's overreacting. It's not a big deal. So what if he said no, he didn't stop it.

"I got possessed by a friend," Constantine tells him. Another cigarette is in his mouth, glowing red at the end, but Dick didn't see him take it out or light it. "And then while he was possessin' me, he had sex with his wife."

Dick breathes in slowly.

"They wanted to have a kid," Constantine continues, tone almost _offhand._ "Needed a human surrogate. I would've said yes, if he asked." He shrugs a shoulder carelessly. "He didn't ask."

"Why are you telling me this?" Dick asks hollowly.

"Grayson, you look one second away from doin' somethin' you'll regret and that the rest of us _definitely_ will," Constantine says. "So if you're gonna sit there and blame yourself for what some bitch did _to_ you, then I figured I might as well join sharing time while I try to figure out a way to convince you to come back to mine and maybe get some bloody sleep."

"Why?" Dick asks, lost. "Why do you care?"

Constantine looks at him for a minute, and then shakes his head. "Shit, Dickie. You are too good to hate yourself so much. Leave that to us fuck-ups."

Dick snorts out a laugh. "I'm not good, Constantine. I'm not—Christ, what I did tonight. That's not—I'm not a real hero. Haven't been since I killed the Joker, maybe. Maybe I've been fooling myself this whole time."

Constantine takes a slow drag from his cigarette and then breathes it out, tipping his head back.

"Last I checked," he says eventually, "the Joker is still kickin'. And Grayson, trust me when I say there isn't a single soul on this planet who would say you aren't _good._ You've had a shit go of it lately, I'm not sayin' you 'aven't. I'm not sayin' you don't 'ave the right to be out of sorts for a while. I'm just sayin' that I know what darkness looks like, and you aren't it."

Dick doesn't know why that has his eyes stinging with tears, why his chest is tight with hitched breaths that Dick desperately wants to hold in. He blames the alcohol; it's stripped him of his normal levels of control, made him vulnerable. And Constantine is saying things Dick didn't even realize he wanted to hear, even if he doesn't believe it. _Can't_ believe it.

"Come on," Constantine says gently after a little while of letting Dick exist in the silence. "Why don't you let me take you back to the House of Mysteries? Can't promise it won't talk back to ya but there's a working shower and about a thousand comfy beds to choose from. Plus Zee is there and I'm sure she'd _love_ to see you again."

He accompanies his words with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows, and it draws a laugh out of Dick, even as a tear slides down his cheek.

"You two are the worst," Dick says thickly, wiping his eyes.

Constantine smirks. "What can I say? You left an impression."

Dick laughs again despite himself. He knows what Constantine's referring to, of course. Last year the three of them ended up working a case together, and a victory celebration afterwards turned into something more. He had a really good time with them; they'd been good _to_ him, all bright passion and killer skill. And though the idea of letting anyone touch him right now makes ants run under his skin—

_Quiet, mi amor. Callado..._

—the idea of being _around_ Zee and John sounds really...nice.

Does he deserve that, though? After what he's done? After all the chaos and pain and strife? He just wants to keep drinking until he can't remember his own name, until he can't remember the sound Rolland Desmond made as he hit the ground, until he can't remember what Catalina felt like when she—when she—

But he wants it so badly, all of a sudden. He wants to let Constantine take him back to that ridiculous, magical house of his. He wants to let two of the most powerful people in the world tell him that it's not his fault, that he isn't bad, that he isn't a disease that infects everyone he gets close to. That he isn't poison.

But he's...

"I think that's a bad idea," Dick mutters, looking down at his empty glass.

"Oh?" Constantine asks. "And why's that?"

Dick doesn't know how to convey the truth to him. That right now he doubts his right to _breathe,_ let alone be treated with care. That Constantine really should just leave him here and move on with his life, that _everyone_ should move on with their lives, that he doesn't deserve kindness, that if Constantine knew what Dick had done—

But Constantine has never been one to judge. Constantine is the one who gets down in the weeds and does things that most would sneer at, the one who deals with devils and demons and still comes out the other side mostly intact. He won't tell Dick he's awful for standing aside and letting Blockbuster die. And he won't praise him, either, which Dick wouldn't be able to handle.

It will just be. With Constantine, he can just _be._

Maybe he doesn't deserve that. Maybe he deserves to suffer for it all. Maybe he deserves to go to prison for contributing to so many deaths. But maybe...

Dick looks up at Constantine, and whatever the older man sees in his expression has his own softening.

"Come on, luv," he says gently. "Why don't you let me take you somewhere far nicer than this?"

Dick swallows and nods. "I—okay."

His feet don't want to cooperate, so Constantine has to put an arm around his waist to help him walk. The touch makes Dick shake, but Constantine is a solid presence at his side, helpful and unwavering. Nothing at all like Catalina. He smells like cigarettes and whiskey and that sharp scent that always accompanies those who dabble in the occult. Nothing at all like rain and blood and perfume.

He's safe with Constantine. John has his back.

He hadn't even realized how _desperately_ he's been wanting someone to have his back until just now, and it brings tears to his eyes, a shuddering breath going out of him.

Constantine gets them in a cab. He moves to give Dick room, but Dick doesn't want to let go of the _safety_ he feels, staying against Constantine's side as they settle in for the ride.

"You alright there?" Constantine asks, voice a low murmur.

"She raped me," Dick says. She did that. That's what happened. They didn't have sex. He said no. He trusted her and she did it anyway.

Constantine pulls him closer and presses his lips to the crown of his head. "Yeah she did. And I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

Dick closes his eyes. "John?"

"Yeah, luv?"

"Thanks for coming for me."

He knows Constantine didn't mean to, that it was pure chance that he ended up in the same bar at Dick. That technically, Constantine didn't show up for him at all. But he could've left. He could've easily allowed Dick to wallow in his sorrows, allow him to stay hunched over the bar until someone finally kicked him out on the street.

Instead, Constantine stayed, and he pulled Dick out of his head enough to really matter. And he didn't leave him alone. _Dick is so tired of being alone._

"Anytime," Constantine tells him, and though the word is casual, Dick knows that he means it.


End file.
